


room for [one] more

by VerdantMoth



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, Asexual Character, Consensual Underage Sex, Implied Past Loki/Harley Keener, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Sibling Incest, Sugr Daddy Tony, implied past Thor/Loki/Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-01 09:33:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18333344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: This is the story Harley wept against Peter’s growling stomach.There’s a broken man who needs a family. Who saves lost little boys because he couldn’t save himself. He takes fractured, dull toys and makes them shiny and new.





	room for [one] more

Somewhere between Tuesday and Wednesday the knock on his window startles Harley from his fitful sleep. He groans, rolls away from Peter’s warmth and glares at the silhouette in the moon.

It takes him a minute, but then he’s leaping from his bed as quietly as possible to throw it open. Loki balances carefully on the lattice, smiling wide. He grips Harley by the jaw and pulls him into a kiss that leaves them panting, despite the salty grief Harley can taste. 

“We’re getting out, Lee-lee. Tony’s given us a whole new world!” Loki’s eyes are bright, even in the moon and Harley can see how he is softer, less angular, but still sharp. 

He’s been eating. And well. Harley glances behind him, down, where Thor shifts in the night chill. The Odinson boys have always been peculiar creatures, so that even in the dark of the evening, Harley can see the jealousy rage in the golden boy’s eyes. He knows that heat, has felt it in his own stare. 

Just to be cruel, he pulls Loki closer, licks into his mouth chasing the dreams he’s long left behind, curling his fingers into ink-soft hair, until they pull back, breathless. “A place where you and Thor can become gods?” He asks desperate. 

Loki’s eyes soften, just barely, and he shoves a keycard into the pocket of Harley’s sleep pants. “Oh Lee-lee. We’ve always been god’s. Can’t you see?”

Harley can’t. 

Loki pulls back. “It’s okay. You’ll get out too, you and Peter.” He leans forward and gives Harley a soft kiss, a last kiss. “I told you I’d save you. Both of you.” And then Harley’s mischievous moonbeam flips in that impossible way the Odinson boys move, right into Thor’s arms. They share a kiss that lights up the dark street, too bright for the dismal road they live on, before vanishing into the oncoming dawn.

Harley reaches into his pants and pulls out the red and gold keycard everyone knows. It feels like holding heaven in his hands, and he’s afraid of it, as he opens the note. 

_ You’ve been selected for the Stark Industries pilot program. Monday, 7 am.  _

Harley has made it. He’s been selected. He’s getting Peter out of the shithole they call home. He slides the window shut with a  _ snick _ and curls back around his shivering brother, pressing a kiss to the base of his spine. 

“It’ll be okay, Peter, you’ll see. Big brother’s gonna bring you uptown.”

—

He doesn’t tell Peter the next morning. He doesn’t, because he can’t. Not yet. Instead he burns the eggs and under cooks the toast and steals the last of the souring milk, shoving Peter’s curls despite his outraged squawk.  

But Peter eyes him with blue lips and blue rimmed eyes and blue nail beds. “You’re s’pose to be taking a midterm today,” he tells his brother. 

And Harley hates that Peter keeps their schedules. “Don’t feel good.” And it’s too cold to walk and he doesn’t have money for a bus and, and, and.

Peter crowds into his space and touches the still-healing purple of Harley’s eye, the split of his lip. 

“Don’t,” he tells Harley. “Please. You promised, no one touches you and you touch no one.”  _ Nothing, not food or heat or anything is worth you giving that up. _

They don’t talk about the bite-scars on Harley’s hips. When Peter was 13 and had a cough they couldn’t chase away and Harley was two months shy of almost legal, but no one cared if he lied.

They don’t talk about it, but Peter doesn’t let Harley out of his sight anymore than he can help.

Harley shoves his shoulder. “Shut up, kid. And put an extra shirt on. Your lips are blue. You’re gonna be late.” He pushes Peter towards the door, sneaks a crumpled 5 in his pocket and prayed Peter spends it on lunch. 

Peter’s hands tremble and he looks at Harley. “Don’t. I won’t forgive you.”

He always does. 

—

Stark Industries is a glass tower with gleaming white floors and sterling silver appliances and marble everything. Harley shuffles in, hating the jeans that don’t reach his ankles, the shirt with holes in the collar and the shoes he can’t tie. 

But when a pretty blonde woman in a pristine skirt clicks her way towards him, he squares his shoulder, straightens his spine, and lifts his chin. 

Tony Stark stands next to her, phone in hand and barely glancing at Harley. “Miss Potts, get him cleaned up and buy him something decent,” he says to the woman. “Feed him and maybe get some groceries too. Got an image to uphold, Boy,” he says.

He turns on his heels without much else and doesn’t that just burn in Harley’s empty gut. “Asshole,” he mutters, kicking his muddy sneaker just to watch it scuff the time.

Miss Potts gives him a look that makes his cheeks flush. “Careful, Harley. This is a great opportunity for you and Peter. You don’t want to blow it before it even begins, no?”

And it’s only his brother’s name that keeps Harley from flicking her off. He bites his cheek until he tastes iron to keep his tongue in check and he resolutely doesn’t glare at the slope of her neck as he follows her to an elevator. 

They’re quiet all the way up, Miss Potts tick-ticking away on her phone the whole time. She leads him into a room and he’s afraid to step on the cloud-soft looking cream carpet.

Miss Potts points to a shoe rack and Harley flushes. As if his socks are any better. As if his  _ feet _ are any cleaner. But he kicks off his sneakers and peels off his socks and he steps onto the carpet with a heady sigh. 

“Shower is through the first door, towels are under the sink. What are you, medium? Long legs?” She clacks away for a minute and then says, “Well go on. Scrub up. There will be an outfit on the counter when you’re done.” She leaves like he’s going to oblige, and then, because he’s standing there filthy with no clue where to run, he does. 

The shower is… complicated. Too many knobs and levers and all he really wants is hot water and basic soap. 

Harley manages scalding water, and he finds some charcoal shampoo and conditioner. There’s, well honestly there’s like seventeen different bottles in six languages, and he doesn’t know which is for what, so he decides the shampoo can double as a body wash. He stays in until he can’t see his torso for the steam, and his skin is pruned and his muscles almost don’t ache. 

When he gets out there’s a thick towel in a burgundy shade and it’s quite honestly the softest thing he’s ever felt. For half a second he debates the appropriateness of using the towel as clothing before he sees the actual outfit. 

Black trousers in a soft material, lined with fleece. A plum button up and wool socks. He’s afraid of the briefs, because they look  _ delicate _ in a way he can’t explain, but he slips them on anyway and he’s glad no one can see the way his whole body purrs.

There’s no shoes, so he steps back into the room, toweling off his hair. 

“So it fits?” Miss Potts says, leaning against a wall. 

“Perfectly,” Harley says with annoyance. She arches a brow at him as she hands him leather shoes. “I can’t wear those,” he gasps. “There’s no way. They cost a fortune.” 

He doesn’t have to know what brand they are to know that. Miss Pots just smiles at him. “Honey, they’re the cheapest part of your outfit right now. C’mon. We’ve got to get you a wardrobe, and then Tony’ll show you the garage.”

Harley follows, because he’s not sure what else to do. It’s a feeling he’s becoming dishearteningly familiar with. 

— 

Following Miss Potts in and out of stores he’s afraid to breath in is exhausting. She never blinks at the prices, and try as he might, she makes him try everything on. He lies about the fits, because if he can just get Peter one or two things…

But she’s never fooled and he’s ends up with a pile of bags he’s got nowhere to store, no way to explain to his brother. At least the hats and scarves and gloves can be shared easily. 

But they’re exciting the last store, about to get something to eat  _ finally _ and meet Tony when Harley spots them. Leather coats, pristine and  _ warm.  _ Miss Potts notices, and she says, “Which one do you like?”

And the truth is, he loves the dark brown one, with its bronze buttons and it’s furry collar. But Peter would die for the black coat with its silver adornments and spiked wrist cuffs. He fingers the brown one for a moment, before plucking the black one off the rack. 

She makes him try it on, and it’s a perfect fit, snug against his shoulders. Peter’s gonna drown in it, but it’ll keep him warm. Miss Potts eyes him for a long moment, before turning to the sales rep. “Get is the brown on in this size and the black one,” she pauses, tugging at Harley’s collar and yanking the sleeves down his wrist. “Maybe a size smaller, you think? Seems a little loose on you Harley.”

He’s too afraid to argue, so he just nods, wishing and hoping this means what he thinks it does. The sales rep doesn’t look convinced but Miss Potts flashes a black card and she does as told. 

“If you’d needed things for Peter,” she says quietly, “all you had to do was ask.” 

Harley’s neck flushes but Miss Potts is already leading him towards a food court and ordering dishes with unpronounceable names that taste like honey and spice on his tongue. 

—

The garage is stunning. And Harley feels out of place in his nice outfit down here. Tony doesn’t look up as he waves a hand towards a door. “Changing room. You’ll find jeans and sneakers and more durable shirts.”

Harley stands there for a long time, staring at this man who offers him freedom. For the first time he wonders if the price he’s gonna pay is worth it. 

Tony Stark suddenly seems to realize he isn’t being obeyed and he straightens. Turns with piercing eyes. “You hard of hearing Harley, a little slow in the head?” He taps Harley’s brown hair. “Did Loki overestimate your talents?”

The name shakes Harley awake and he scowls, bats the man’s hand away. “All you gonna do is point to rooms and buy me clothes?”

Tony cocks his head, the faintest of smiles quirking at his sharp lips. “Tell me, Harley. Would that be the worst way to earn your keep?” His hands, absent or maybe not, brush over Harley’s hip where the crescent-scars burn, as he reaches for a wrench. Shame and acid simmer in Harley’s belly, and a little guilt, too, because, “No, it wouldn’t be.”

“Then be a good boy and go change. I wanna show you a thing,” and just like that Tony’s back to whatever he’s looking at, Harley basically forgotten. 

When he comes back, in jeans and a sweat-wicking shirt in a wine color, Tony has cleared most of the lab and there’s a gleaming hunk of metal Harley’s itching to explore. Tony points to it, “What’s this?” 

Harley blinks at him. It looks like a Cadillac engine except, he frowns, fingering the tubes, the gaskets. “What’s it run on?”

Tony chuckles. “You tell me. This is what you’re here for? Innit?”

Harley’s nods distracted, fingers turning anything he can. The grease feels… it’s not grease. Not oil. He rubs his fingers together, then sniffs them. Licks them. “It’s sugar water?”

Tony nods. 

“But,” Harley frowns, eyeing the tools until he finds a flathead. “Never seen an engine that sugar didn’t wreck,” he mutters to himself. “Not gonna work.”

Tony doesn’t say much, as Harley pulls the engine apart, piece by piece, muttering and occasionally asking questions or for tools. Tony hops onto a workbench to watch, offering Harley a towel when he peels his damp shirt off, the material not quite good enough to compete with curiosity.

By the time it’s completely deconstructed, Harley’s stomach is growling and the sun is low in the sky. Tony hands him a green drink that taste like grass and says, “You’ll need to be honest about your class schedule, if you want this. No skipping test, or homework. Miss Potts is going to have most of your assignments sent here, for less important classes and you can work on that in your down time. Hours are 7 am to typically about 4, but,” he waves a hand, “sometimes it’s later.”  

Harley checks his battered watch and then his heart sinks. “Oh no, I can’t-“ he scramble, not sure what he’s really looking for but there’s a pounding horror in his ears. “Peter’s gonna be waiting for me,” he says. 

Tony looks at him, and there’s a sharp hunger in his eyes that’s terrifying. “You didn’t tell him?”

Harley shrugs. “You don’t understand, I can’t.” Because if this doesn’t work out, if he gets Peter’s hopes up just to crush them… 

Tony shrugs. “Figure it out. Tomorrow you gotta put my engine back together.”

—

Harley couldn’t find his clothes when he went to leave, but he wasn’t changing back into the first outfit. So he stomps home in his pristine sneakers and his brown leather coat and their little room is dark when he rattles the door. 

Peter’s locked him out and his phone is dead. Or just off. He can’t wake the neighbors. So he knocks a few times on the door, then slinks to the window that should be unlocked. It isn’t, and the curtains are drawn. 

“Peter,” he hisses. “Let me in you little runt.” It’s fucking cold. Dark and late, and he’s terrible at balancing on the trellis. 

There’s no noise inside and dread settles like stale bread in Harley’s gut. He raps against the window, sharp staccatos that are going wake a neighbor. He can see the lights flickering on next door. 

With little other choice Harley uses his elbow to break the glass, so he can reach inside and unlock the window. Just as he tumbles into the room, a wooden bat slams into his shin. “Jesus fuck, Peter! It’s me!”

Peter stands over him, half awake and annoyed. “Where’s your key?” 

In the pocket of his old pants so probably incinerated, he thinks. Instead he stands up and yanks the bat away. “Didn’t you hear me knocking? Idiot.”

Peter shrugs. “Never know who is really at the door.” 

He saunters back to their bed, and Harley eyes the fuzzy pants he’s wearing, with their little SI emblems. “Where’d you get those?” He asks. 

Peter waves a hand at him, then at a pile of bag in the corner of their room, right under a mildewed, water stained poster of Tony Stark. “Where’d you get all that?” And the accusation is couched in a wobbly voice, but Harley doesn’t have a real answer. 

He peels off his coat and carefully lays it on a cluttered desk, kicking off his sneakers. He tries to wrap himself around Peter, but his brother kicks and shoved at him, pressing himself against the wall. “You promised,” he hisses. He sniffs, and Harley uses his sleeve to wipe his tears. Peter wants to pull back but it’s  _ cold _ .

“I did,” Harley says. “And I kept the promise.” He’s got no real way to prove it, except to let Peter peel his shirt off, run his hands over the smooth, unmarked skin, save for the old scars. “See?”

Peter rolls over. “How long can you, though?” He says. But he doesn’t fight when Harley curls around him, hooks his arm over Peter’s narrow chest and tangles their legs together. 

“As long as you’re safe,” Harley whispers against his neck, when Peter snores. 

—

It becomes a routine Harley doesn’t intend. He sees Peter off to class, ignoring the guilt as Peter refuses the fresh fruits and vegetables overflowing their tiny fridge in favour of souring milk and questionable chicken. 

He tries. At one point he dumps the milk down the drain, stomach churning at the texture of the liquid and he can’t quite bring himself to trash the chicken but he tucks it as far back as he can.  

Peter looks him in the eye as he plucks a cup from the overflowing sink and drinks the off-colored water instead. Harley can  _ hear  _ his stomach trying to digest and he begs, “C’mon. Please, Pete. Just, eat it.”

Peter stalks past him.  

Harley spends most of his days being shuttled to classes and to the garage, pouring over a sugar engine they can’t quite make run, and he comes back to a dark room and a broke window Peter keeps taping over. 

He hates it. But Harley can’t quite figure out how to give up this thing with Tony. 

Because the Stark Industries CEO is brilliant. He’s got a sharp tongue, and he pushes Harley viciously, demands his best. But when he hovers over Harley’s shoulder, covers his hand to show him a stripped bolt, there is something safe in the touch. It’s not like others, where the damp breath on his neck is heady and promising. 

Tony eyes him, with curiosity and hunger, but not the kind Harley used to bruise his knees for. Tony is lonely, but he isn’t desperate, even when they lean against each other sweaty and tired. Harley’s skin doesn’t prick at the hand that pats his knee. 

Sometimes, it’s  _ his  _ gaze that’s starved and heated, and Tony just smiles and winks at him. Harley’s ears burn, and he finds himself…

He’s not dirty enough to rut against his sleeping brother, but Peter's warmth at his back definitely plays into his fantasies as he bites his orgasm into his pillows. 

He soaks in his own spend, until it’s too cold and sticky and he scrubs himself down with murky water and half used paper towels, guilt swirling as he thinks of the shower he gets to use after the garage tomorrow.

—

It’s near midnight, and Harley knows. He  _ knows  _ Peter is waiting and probably worried, but he’s so fucking close to figuring this out and Tony is hot against his back.  

“Have we tried,” Tony starts, adjusting a hose. Harley bats his hand away.

“Don’t mess that up! And yeah, it explodes when we do. But,” he begins, already drawing Tony’s fingers from that hose to a few copper bits, “what if…” 

He doesn’t finish because something shatters behind them, and they both whirl around. Tony is already pulling a gun from beneath the counter but Harley is practically throwing himself over the man’s shoulders. “No wait! Peter!”

His brother stands there in jeans that are too big at the waist and cut off at the ankles, and the leather coat Harley thought he hated. He’s got a crowbar in his hands, a broken tablet at his feet, and a blank look on his face, despite the wobbling lip. “You said,” Peter hiccups. 

Harley scrambles towards him. “Really, little spider. It’s not how it looks.” 

Peter lifts the crowbar, hugs it to his chest and when Harley tries to grip his shoulder he steps back. “You promised, Harls. You swore.”

“And I didn’t,” Harley tried again, but Peter is already pointing his crowbar at Tony. 

“You’re dirty, you know that?” And he’s shaking, full body spasms that rattle his teeth. “And you shouldn’t touch what isn’t yours.”

Tony’s heels click against the stone floor, the gun clanking against the workbench, and Harley can see something in the man’s eyes that frightens him, something that makes him freeze even as his senses are screaming for him to go to Peter. To protect him. 

It doesn’t take much, for Tony to twist the crowbar from Peter’s grip, to pin his narrow body against the wall. “You like making threats, boy? Like sticking your dirty nose where it doesn’t belong?” Tony makes Peter look  _ tiny _ and Harley shifts forward. Tony stills him with a wave of a hand as he grips Peter’s jaw, tilts his head up. 

The defiance in those brown eyes makes Harley so proud, despite his fear. Tony turns Peter’s head, leans down to whisper in his ear, and Harley can’t hear what he’s saying but the way Peter shakes…

He rushes forward, pulling at Tony’s shirt. The garage and the food has done wonders for him, but Tony has years of training and bats Harley away easily. 

Peter struggles and Tony says, “Be still, kid. I’m not actually going to hurt you. I just don’t want you trying hurting me.”

Peter doesn’t stop, for a few not minutes, and then he gives up and slumps against the wall. Tony waits to see if he’s going to try anything, before releasing his wrist and stepping back. 

Harley rushes forward, grabs at his brother to check that he’s okay, before glaring at Tony. “Seriously? He’s like 15 and he weighs 100 pounds. He couldn’t hurt you.”

Tony narrows his eyes. “That kid there? Broke into a building with the best security in the world, snuck past over 100 special ops trained guards, and somehow got through six doors with biometric locks. And he’s just a handful of days away from 16” 

“Five,” Peter corrects. “One of them was propped open.”

Harley flushes, and avoids Tony’s gaze. “Point being, you might not be able to beat me physically. But you’re still a threat to my entire company, and therefore, me.”

Fear trickles into Peter’s eyes. Real fear. The kind that says he’s finally realizing that maybe he’s made a huge mistake. Harley is torn, which makes him feel ill, trying to decide does he argue for Peter or does he argue for Tony. 

He tugs his brother to him, tries to shield him. “Peter, I told you everything was fine. Why don’t you ever trust me?”

Peter sniffs but he glares over Tony’s shoulder. “Because you lie to me. Because you think I don’t know how you’re getting these clothes. How you’re paying our bills.”

And Tony says “ _ oh _ ” quiet like an exhale, and then he says “oh,” loud and pained. 

“Peter. It’s not,” he reaches out but Peter flinches back hard so Tony lifts his hands. “It’s not like that, Peter. I won’t ever touch Harley that way.”

Peter isn’t soothed. “You guys always say that, and then he comes home with black eyes and a limp and I gotta clean him up. I know how you all work.”

Tony shakes his head. “No, you don’t.” And Harley can hear the edge to his tone, the dangerously quiet lace to his words that says Peter needs to move careful. “See, here’s the thing, Petey-boy. You think you know me. You’ve read the rags, studied my posters. Probably even perused a paper or two. And you see the media splash my face next to little toys like yourself. So you think I’m breaking them.  Like everyone else.”

Harley speaks up, voice too loud in his ears but almost to quiet in the room. “He’s not like that Pete. He doesn’t,” Harley cuts his eyes, studying the same hunger he knows Peter is seeing, trained on his brother. “Well I haven’t figured it out yet, but he’s never even tried. Not like that.”

Peter doesn’t look convinced, but it’s late and he’s swaying on his feet and the fight just… bleeds out of him. He crumples, wraps his arms around his knees and buries his face there, sobbing. 

Harley falls with a thud to his own knees, stroking his fingers over Peter’s hair. “Why? Such a stupid thing to do. They could’ve hurt you!”

Peter looks at him red, puffy face glistening. “You’re never home anymore. They’re stealing you away.”

Harley’s heart clinks to the ground, the kinda thud that makes Tony angry, when Harley drops a toolbox. “It’s not like that,” he says and “I’m doing it for us,” and “I’m going to get us out of that hellhole. Don’t you get it?”

He’s shaking Peter, just a bit, “I’m doing everything I can so you won’t have to one day.”

Tony isn’t saying anything but Harley can feel him watching. It’s making him nervous, but also the gaze feels fond, heavy, and makes him squirm. 

When Peter has soothed himself, and he slumps against Harley only half awake, Tony speaks again. “Take him to your room. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Harley knows he has confusion burned into his cheeks as Tony eyes him. “Miss Potts has shown you your room, multiple times.”

Harley struggles to lift Peter into an awkward bridal carry. Despite everything he’s still a half-starved kid trying to carry his brother. 

As he turns to leave the room, Tony’s hand lands against his neck. “You can’t get him out, Harls. Not on your own.”

It’s a threat, a promise, a  _ confessions _ , a single breath.

“I can try,” he slings at Tony’s back. Laughter echoes around him. 

—

Harley wakes up, and Peter is a warm weight against his chest. His hair still smells of the eucalyptus soap he found last night, and his breath is damp against Harley’s neck. The moment feels like a dream, as Harley takes in Peter. He’s glowing, and his skin is pale but rosey. Harley isn’t sure the last time Peter was clean, really and truly clean, and a small part of him feels guilty for enjoying this perk long before Peter. 

There’s an inexplicable glow about this Peter, skin pale and mud free. He looks… he looks like a painting Harley saw when he was little. An angel, or maybe a sacrifice hanging on the walls of a richman’s home. Harley doesn’t want to wake him, but he can’t help stroking through the soft, unmatted curls. Kissing his temple.

He’s not sure how long he spends soaking in this well rested version of Peter, before he feels his brother begin to stir. He can feel it, the moment Peter registers where they are, in the way all of his muscles go taut, and his breathing shifts. Peter scrapes himself off Harley and sits up, and his lips are a firm line. He pushes the covers away until he can sit on Harley’s hips and jab a finger into his chest. “Mine,” he hisses, before leaning down. And it’s Peter’s first kiss, a mashing of teeth and misaligned lips, and too much spit. His hands are heavy against Harley’s elbows, making it so he cannot move.

This kiss feels like the one so many nights ago, when Harley’s whole world turned upside down. A desperate goodbye, an entire life ending in a single breath. There’s fear in the way Peter’s fingers bruise Harley’s arms, desperation in the way he grinds down. 

But there’s a strength, undeniable, in the way Peter pins him. 

Harley has never really been one for words, and he doesn’t know how to explain to Peter that yeah, things are changing. Their world  _ is _ ending, but in the best way possible.    
  
He wrestles his brother, gets his arms free and shoves, pulls, thanks the stars for the little bit of muscle he has on Peter as he manages to flip them. He straddles Peter, holds his arms above his head, and kisses the salt in the corner of those brown eyes. He doesn’t say it, but when he leans down, presses his lips soft and warm to Peter’s he hopes he hears  _ yours _ in it. 

Peter has always been a fighter, teeth sharp against Harley’s lips, tongue demanding entrance. But Harley doesn’t let him win. He pulls back, keeps Peter’s arms bound, until his breath just barely ghost. Until he can swipe his tongue along his own lips, and taste Peter on the tip. He gives him a little nip below the jaw, a harder bite at his ear, and when he shifts, loses his balance and they rut against each other, Harley doesn’t hide his shudder. 

They hear the door swish open behind them, and Harley has half a thought to stop this, but Peter lets out a noise that isn’t small. He finally manages to get his hands free in Harley’s distraction, and he digs his nails into the back of Harley’s neck, keeping him pressed like he can’t breath if Harley’s mouth isn’t slotted against his. 

Peter’s a desperate, mewling mess, keening and writhing and Harley’s just along for the ride at this point, barely balanced on his elbows, trying not to crush his brother.

They both hear the sharp inhale, recognize Tony’s cadence, and Harley doesn’t know which of them loses it first, but he hears himself cry, hears Peter’s echo, feels their stomachs clenching and the warm dampth spreading in their soft briefs. He slumps down, hears the oof Peter gives and goes to roll off. 

Peter wraps around him, unbothered by the quickly cooling spend and the sweat, and Harley tilts his head, looks at the jut of his brother’s chin. “Dirty,” Peter hisses. “Mine,” he claims. 

Harley tilts his head to see Tony Stark eyeing them, dressed in dark jeans and a grey knit top. He’s flushed about the ears, but that’s the only indication he gives that he saw anything. His eyes, heavy and assessing bore into the brothers, but there’s a fire missing from them. 

Like, like he won a prize he only half wants.

Tony smiles at him. “Breakfast when you’re ready. Peter, Happy will drive you to school and later, he’ll bring your things here. I can see separating you two isn’t going to work anymore.” And then he’s out the door in a blink, leaving a confused Harley and a wary Peter in his wake.

—

They don’t talk about what Tony saw, or how it changes thing. 

Peter is clingy; he’s always stuck close to Harley, but now it’s a fight for them to be apart. Peter doesn’t quite stomp his feet, but he drags them, and Happy has to wrestle him to school.  

He gets home and he immediately finds Harley, wherever he is, and he… it’s not…. he doesn’t really do anything different. Harley can’t quantify the change except Peter stands a hair closer, breathes just a bit heavier.

Tony spoils him. Them. It’s easier to spoil Peter, who let’s Tony buy him  _ everything.  _ Fancy shoes and one of a kind t-shirts. Electronic prototypes, shiny watches, more comic books than Harley even knew existed. 

Harley watches as a barber styles Peter’s curls, as he explains six different gels and a diffuser. He watches Peter’s ribs disappears and his belly go soft. Watches as he takes a part the million dollar prototype Tony just bought, and together they…

Well. Engines are really more Harley’s things. He’s not a fan of the delicate motherboards. But Peter has a welding iron engraved with his initials,  _ because it’s pretty,  _ and so many loose parts Harley can’t keep count. 

He lets Tony buy him clothing, let him play with his engines, and feed him, but the only other thing Harley really lets Tony pay for (aside from housing, maybe) is a single leather bound notebook. 

He keeps it hidden, from Peter and Tony, the only way he knows how. Harley jots down every little extravagance Tony buys Peter. Every stupid belt and custom high top and single print comic. 

The price tags are astronomical, even for a multi billion dollar company. It makes Harley’s stomach churn, trying to figure out what he owes. What he can eventually pay for.

But it’s hard to say no when Tony’s eyes gleam and Peter’s laugh echoes around the garage. 

So Harley says nothing, and he keeps his books, and he tries to be okay with what he’ll have to give up to keep everyone smiling.

—

Tony smiles in public, a hand on each other shoulders, but it’s not the grin Harley and Peter are accustomed to. This grin is mocking, is feral. 

“Meet the Stark Boys,” Tony purrs. “Two geniuses in their own rights, mechanism and biochemistry. These boys are going to break the future, and build a better one.”

Peter’s grin is bright, excited, as he bounces on his heels and stares up at Tony. Harley mostly just wants to fade into the background. To be back in his garage covered in grease and fixing the goddamned sugar engine they can’t work out. 

This is wrong, Harley thinks. It’s too early. Loki said, a lot of things, but Loki never got the public presenting. 

There were snapshots, paparazzi reveals, but Tony never publicly put his stamp on them. 

Harley isn’t sure how this is going to work. 

But he’s finishing his classes quicker than the thought possible, not having to work and take care of Peter and limit his workload cause of money and time. 

At this rate, he might graduate  _ early  _ instead of hoping just to graduate. 

Tony leads them around the gala-banquet, and Harley fights with the amber tie, jealous Peter got a red bow tie.  

The food is… small and slimy and even Peter isn’t trying it. Harley watches his brother whisper something into Tony’s ear, watches the fine fingers curl in the grey lapel and the way he hovers in the older man’s space, and the flash of jealousy startled him. 

Enough that he jerks in his seat. Tony eyes him, a feline smirk, and leans closer to Peter. He curls a hip over Harley's brother’s waist to answer him, and Peter squirms delightedly. 

Burgers, Harley knows. Peter’s making sure Tony is gonna take them out for burgers and shakes, like he promised, like he always does. 

A camera flashes to his left and Harley  _ knows  _ his twisted expression, so he works to school it. Peter and Tony both smile at him, predatory.

Harley is a little terrified at how quickly Peter has adapted. 

—

Tony takes pity on them, on Peter dozing on his shoulder, sometime around 1 am, and leads them to the car. 

Peter clambers into the limo first, waits until Tony has settled, and immediately curls into his lap, letting Tony pet his curls.

Harley hesitates, a sharp stinging along his spine as he takes in the scene because he  _ wants.  _ He wants Peter in  _ his  _ lap, and Tony’s hands in  _ his _ hair. 

But it’s too cold, despite the on coming spring, to stand there watching, so he climbs in and settles against the leather and leans his head against the glass. 

Tony makes a curious noise high in his throat, and reaches for Harley’s hand. Before he can grab it Harley places it in his lap and watches the lamp post flicker bye. 

The dinner is practically empty when the get there, and it takes some coaxing from both of them to get Peter awake, but by the time they’ve settled into the booth he’s  _ starving _ . 

“Can I get three burgers and the extra large cheesy bacon fries, Tony?” He asks, doe-eyed and blushing. 

Before Tony says anything, Harley speaks up sharply. “That’s too much Peter. You can’t even eat all of that. Especially if you’re gonna get a peanut butter fudge Sundae shake.”

For a moment Harley thinks Tony is going to argue against him. He stares into the older man’s eyes, reminds him who has cared for Peter longer. 

Who had to sink the lowest. 

Tony nods, like they’ve agreed to something “We don’t want to upset your stomach this late, Pete. Two burgers and a medium fry.”

Peter pouts, kicks Harley in the shine, but he doesn’t argue. 

Harley settles on a burger and onion rings, and he doesn’t get a shake because they make him ill, but he swipes a few of Peter’s fries into Tony’s vanilla mess and…

It’s good. Calming. They laugh at the people they saw tonight, ladies in ridiculous dresses and men too drunk to know they were being played.

They get home, and Harley wrestles Peter into a shower and into bed, curls around him full and safe and almost unworried. 

—

Tony doesn’t touch. Not the way people think, the way Harley expected. He strokes their hair, guides their hands, steadys them with warm fingers in the small of their backs, but he doesn’t  _ touch. _

He doesn’t even kiss often, aside from calming brushes against Peter’s temples. 

Harley had heard the rumors, had seen the truth in Loki’s eyes, but he’d never  _ believed _ . 

Especially considering how often he watches. 

Harley knows, in the deepest, darkest, murkiest pit inside his damaged soul, that what he and Peter do, isn’t right.

Peter argues. He thinks it’s perfectly fine and when he captures Harley’s chin in his hands, when he bucks against him and growls into his chest, “I love you more than anyone else will ever be able to. All you’re broken, stormy parts,” Harley almost believes him. 

He buries his shame in the juncture of Peter’s shoulder and bites his release into the pillow and he washes the sticky shame from their bellies. All while telling himself it’s better that it’s him, that he loves Peter, that he gives this to him so others won’t take it.

Tony almost always finds them, when they’re too far gone. Peter explained it once, J.A.R.V.I.S and biometrics and heat signals.

“He makes sure we’re okay, and then he studies.” 

It doesn’t strike Peter as odd. If anything it winds him, makes him showey and loud. He curls around Harley and drags his fingers down his back, and when harley lets him, he fucks into him like he’s possessed, hands claiming on Harley’s hips and a litany of “mine” and “love” and rarely, “don’t leave me.”

Those are the times Harley sobs his orgasms, and the only times Tony crawls into bed with them, dressed in nice slacks, warm socks, and a loose button up.

It’s the only time Harley lets himself be caught between them, Peter warm and naked and sleepy against his back and Tony humming against his front, fingers laced in Peter’s as they cradle their shaking boy. 

—

Tony isn’t gentle, and it makes Harley nervous. He pushes them, demands their best. And it’s good, Harley likes living up to those standards. 

But he worries for Peter who has taken to sparring with Tony.

Harley watches with keen eyes and hands that fiddle when Tony swings at Peter, when Peter kicks his legs. 

There’s the obvious physical differences, the age, but Peter is a dancer. He moves with a fluidity, a grace that Tony can’t replicate, despite all of his training.

Harley tangles with Tony and they throw their full strength at each other. Peter though he, he seduced Tony on the mat. Flirting around, a gentle tickle to his ribs, and warm breath against his ear.

He never wins though. Because there’s always a moment where Peter loses himself in his own games, games Tony cannot lose because he never plays them to begin with.

Tony pins Harley’s brother flat, knees on either side, and because he sees the flush Harley sees, sometimes,  _ sometimes _ he’ll press a chaste kiss to Peter’s lips and then motion for Harley to take a round. 

The brothers spar, and it’s entirely foreplay. Harley lets Peter win, depending on what role he wants to play. Sometimes he pins Peter, sits heavy on his stomach and teases with his tongue, his lips, his fingers digging into all the soft flesh he can find. 

He knows Tony is watching, and sometimes it makes him hesitate, when he swallows Peter down.

Sometimes it makes him possessive. A little too rough, not enough spit, just to hear Peter keen, to watch him writhe.

Peter’s even meaner, when Harley lets him win. He teases, keeps his brother on edge with flighty touches and half breaths. 

They put on a show, entice Tony,  _ tease _ him. Desperate for a reaction that never comes. 

Once though, Harley sees the way Tony flushes, cocks his head and Peter cries out his release. Curious, but disconnected. 

—

Summer bleeds in slowly, and Peter and Harley quietly accept their status here. They don’t bother unpacking the clothing Happy brought. 

Most of them didn’t fit before, and all of was left behind dirty. But they pick through the mildew and water stained books, selecting their favorites, tossing anything too gross to read. There’s small trinkets, little stones and fifty cent toys from friends. Harley finds the thunderbolt pendant Loki gave him once and he doesn’t put it on, but he tucks it next to his leather journal.

Peter searches for something, desperate and frantic and then he’s latching onto Harley. “Where is it? It’s gone! They stole it!”

Harley has no clue what he’s talking about and Tony, for once, is gone to handle business. “It’s fine, Pete. We’ll go look for it,” he finally agrees. 

Peter sniffs, tries not to cry, but when he turns Harley can see him wipe his sleeve under his nose.

They don’t tell Miss Potts or Happy. Peter doesn’t want to explain and Harley can’t. 

But they hail a taxi that drops them off a block away from their old place and they walk, suddenly aware of the jeans and sneakers they’re wearing. 

It’s daylight, middle of the afternoon, but Harley’s never felt less safe, even with his new skills and the crowbar Peter procured. 

They make it without incident to their little hovel, and it seems so much smaller, so much  _ grosser _ than Harley remembers, but there’s a part of him that aches with the familiarity.

Peter digs through piles of trash and old clothing, muttering and worried. And then he remembers something and crawls over their mattress, grimacing at the dust, and yanks at the stones in the wall. 

Harley can see the hesitation in his face, before he squares his jaw and reaches into the hole. Harley doesn’t know what he touches, and he’s not inclined to ask. 

Peter finds what he’s looking for, but he doesn’t show it to Harley. Instead the brothers stand there taking in their old home. 

Harley isn’t ready to leave. Leaving means… it means goodbye in a way that scares him. Peter must feel the same because he digs through the fridge, ignoring the rot smell until he finds a 3 musketeers.  

They sit on the couch, quiet and contemplative, splitting the old chocolate. 

At some point they drift off. 

Happy wakes them up, rattling them, fear heavy in his eyes. “You boys idiots?” He hisses. “Didn’t want to let anyone know where you were goin? Boss is freaking out!”

They’re ushered into a car that looks armoured, half awake and unready to leave. Peter grips Harley’s hand tight as he watches their old stomping grounds disappear. 

After they get back, and Miss Potts tears into them and Tony refuses to see them and they’re showered and curling into each other, Peter presses something into Harley’s chest. 

Harley picks up the rusted chain, and sees the glittering gold band, the tiny little diamond. “You kept the rings?”

Peter shrugs. “Stole ‘em off the bodies.” 

And they don’t talk about six year old Peter climbing up the caskets for jewelry, but Harley makes a note to procure a chan worthy of them, even as he hangs it gently around Peter’s neck. 

He kisses Peter, hard, desperate, apologetic, and he takes him gently and forgivingly.

It’s a moment all their own, uninterrupted and so intense it sucks their breath away.  

They sleep too many hours after. 

—

Tony rides them hard, after. Demanding and exacting and he’s not gentle. He doesn’t linger in their space. 

It irritates Harley.  It wounds Peter. But they wake up to too much food and they find suits designed to protect them and Tony beats them into the mat over and over and over, desperate and afraid. “How will you protect yourself when I am not around?” He demands. 

Harley is watching, ice pack to his shoulder as Tony slams Peter over and over. And then he drops Peter, who lands with a thud-crunch-pop, and rolls over with a groan. 

Harley flies off his seat, grabbing the first thing he can and swinging wildly at Tony. He manages to hit him in the shoulder and it sends the older man sprawling, but Tony recovers quickly. 

He kicked at Harley’s ankles and wrestled him into his stomach, arms behind his back. 

Tony lets him squirm and kick for a long while, until he’s red in the face and snot drips and he’s got no more curses left. 

Tony doesn’t release him, not right away. Harley can feel him trembling though. “Are you finished?”

“You hurt him,” Harley hisses. “You’re supposed to care for and protect him and you  _ injured _ him.”

Tony’s hands are like vices against his ears and he turns Harley’s head. Peter is crouched in a corner, holding his wrist and staring terrified. Harley has forgotten how small his brother used to be, because he wears sixteen so well. But now, he looks so small and so fragile and so alone.

“Peter,” Tony says quiet but firm. “Are you hurt?”

Peter flexes his wrist, bends and twist it. “No, sir,” he says. “It’s an old injury that sometimes aches, but it’s nothing bad.”

Tony shivers when Peter calls him “ _ Sir _ ,” and Harley can practically hear the frown at “old injury,” but he slowly lets Harley up. “We’ll get the wrist looked at.”

He grabs Harley’s shirt and pulls him close, “But if you ever, _ ever _ attack me like that again. If you ever dare to imply I’d ever harm either of you..” Tony swallows heavily, shuts his eyes, and releases Harley. “Dismissed,” he says as he leaves. 

—

Peter sulks. Harley sulks. Tony sulks. 

Peter’s wrist is looked at by Tony’s personal doctor and he tsk-tsks the boy for not telling someone sooner. He prescribes a brace and some exercises, and limits his tinkering and sparring.

Harley gets the impression that’s the most upsetting part of the ordeal. 

Tony doesn’t apologize, not with words. But Harley returns to their room and the bed is somehow bigger, the sheets softer, and the shower… more complicated. There’s a silver chain on Peter’s bedside table and a new leather journal that comes with a lock for Harley.

Peter gets new high tops, new comics, a new backpack, and some device that doesn’t actually exist. Probably isn’t human. 

Harley gets the keys to a red and gold Bugatti and he thinks, “I gotta fix this with Tony.” The car is amazing, but he’s never actually learned to drive. Neither has Peter and Harley frowns. 

Technically he knows he has an account Tony set up for him, and there’s probably enough for lessons. 

Peter should know how to drive, just in case. 

He leaves Peter snoring one morning, praying Happy lets him skip classes, just this once, and goes to find Tony. 

He’s not at all surprised to find Tony shirtless and sweaty still tinkering away with their sugar engine. “All the engines we’ve built, and you’re still fuckin with that one,” Harley drawls, leaning against the wall. 

Tony doesn’t look up. “Building is a good way to clear the mind.”

“You got stuff to clear?” Harley asks.

Tony puts his tool down and swivels towards Harley. “Do you trust me?” He asks.

Harley shrugs, then nods. 

“Do you like me?” Tony asks. He’s not teasing, or mocking, but Harley still feels heat skitter up his neck and into his cheeks, and he scuffs his shoes along the ground. 

“Let me ask it this way,” Tony says. “If it came down to it, would you trust me with Peter? Do you like me enough to let  _ Peter _ choose between us?”

There’s another question beneath those, another choice. One Harley doesn’t know how to make anymore. 

That terrifies him, makes him angry. And he wants to lash out, to attack Tony. 

He wants Tony to hold him, to sooth him. To carry his burden like he does Peter’s. 

Tony stares at Harley, searching for something he can’t find. Finally he clasps his hands together and says, “You’d pick Peter.  You’re always going to pick Peter. Every time, in every situation, no matter the cost.” He stands up and moves towards Harley, graceful and sinister. “Bu, Harley, do you  _ want  _ to? Would it be an easy choice? Could you give up everything you have, everything here, throw it away without a second glance the way you used to?” He’s in front of Harley, hands hovering between them, “If I said you had to, demanded an answer, if I asked you-“ 

Harley cuts him off with a sob that startled him, “Please, Tony, don’t make me answer that.” 

Tony grips his neck, right and comforting and pulls him close, and whispers “Kid, I never wanted to. You’re the one picking sides and drawing lines.”

Harley can’t stop himself from crying, can’t stop the tears breaking free and Tony pulls him close, wraps himself around Harley and doesn’t let go. He kisses his temple and runs his hand under Harley’s shirt, over the skin of his back. “It’s okay, kid. I’m not letting you go.”

Harley can’t remember the last time someone called him kid, and he fists his hands into Tony’s shirt and tries to keep his voice down. At some point they sink to the floor, Harley curled in Tony’s lap despite being too big. Tony cradles him, pets his hair, tells him, “You aren’t alone anymore. You don’t have to do it on your own. You don’t have to be so grown up.”

When he’s all sobbed out, when all he has are hiccuping breaths and crusty eyes, Tony pulls him up. “I think we could use a vacation. You, me and Pete. Gonna clear our schedules and arrange time off school for Peter.”

He kisses Harley, a soft little pressing of lips, “You’re going to see, Harley. That you don’t have to choose. You  _ can _ have it all. Peter sees it. I see it, but we’re going to show you.”

He helps Harley stand up, but he doesn’t let go of his hand. He walks him to his room, where Peter has headphones on and is playing with his phone. He sees Harley and he’s up in a flash but Tony shakes his head. 

Harley showers, quick but efficient, and when he comes back out, wrapped in a towel, Tony and Peter are curled in the bed, arguing over a comic.

They look so comfortable, Harley is afraid to disturb them. But they move quietly, opening a Harley shaped hole between them, and when he settles in, Tony hangs over his back and Peter curls into his chest. 

They don’t talk, and Harley drifts between sleep and almost-sleep, listening to the heartbeats, their breaths, feeling their lips on his skin, their fingers. 

It feels like home, caught between their warmths in a too big bed, in a tower that always whirs. 

It feels like home, and Harley had forgotten that feeling.

—

Harley figures the engine out on a beach on the eastern shore. 

Peter is red skin and peeling shoulders and laughter as he crashes into the wave, and Tony is quiet smiles and lazy drinks as he watches

Harley is relaxed, but he needs to  _ do  _ something with his hands, and Peter needs a break, he says. 

So he makes Tony heave the engine onto a picnic table and he tinkers lazily in the sun. 

When he shows Tony the solution, they both sigh. “We were over complicating it,” Tony says. 

“Yup,” Harley answers. “We do that a lot.” He glances at the sky. “We should call Peter back before it rains.”

Tony slips his shades down, watches him, and shrugs. “Nah. A little rain won’t hurt. And he could use the freedom.” He cuts his eyes at Harley. “So could you.”

It never fails to make Harley blush, when Tony eyes him that way. He scowls and flicks sand at him, then runs towards Peter tackling him into the waves. The sky opens up, pelts them with rain and Harley wants to chase Peter inside, wrap him up, but Tony grabs him by the waist and whispers, “ _Watch_.”

Harley does.

Peter tilts his head back and he laughs from deep in his belly, swallows the rain and he smiles back at them, hips swaying. 

Together, Harley and Tony watch Peter move. He shifts across the sand, his whole body flowing and spinning, and he looks unreal. Fae-like. 

“ _ God-like,”  _ Tony whispers in his ear, before planting a kiss against his jaw. 

Harley can’t remember the last time Peter looked so carefree. Or that he felt so warm despite the rain. 

“Do you miss it?” Tony eventually asks, hair dripping in his eyes. 

And Harley leans against him, watching as Peter spins himself out, lands against the wet sand breathless, flushed. “It was hard. Lonely. We never had enough of anything. I never want to go back.”

“But?” Tony prods. And Harley sighs because _of_ _course_ Tony hears what he didn’t say. 

“Peter was safe there. Always. And he had me, and that was enough. I love you, love the tower, love SI.  But sometimes there’s just so much going on, that I miss those quiet moments with him. When he needed me,  _ just _ me, and he curled against me at night and relied on me.”

Tony hums against his neck and Peter is standing up, slowly making his way towards them. “He will always need you, Harley. You have something with him no one else can touch, can give. I’m glad you guys share it with me, and I won’t ever give it up,” his hands tighten on Harley’s hips, “but I won’t ever make you give each other up, either. You’re home now. And you can  _ relax.  _ You’re safe, Peter’s safe. You got out and you brought him.”

Harley turns in Tony’ grip, holds his stubbly jaw in his palms. “I know you don’t think so, but you got out too, Tone. Out of whatever prison you escaped. And Peter and I? We lost too much to ever let you go.”

Peter joins them, doesn’t ask what they’re talking about as he wraps around them, licking their jaws and necks and tickling their ribs. They return to the little beach house, dripping sand and salt onto the floor. 

They shower, and then Peter takes Harley to bed, full of boundless energy. He presses Harley down and he bites over old scars, makes Tony lick the bruises. Harley knows Peter is watching Tony, smirking and teasing as he moves too slow and not deep enough in Harley. And he wants to demand, to order Peter faster, harder, but Tony places a hand against his neck. Kisses his lips. 

Harley taste the command, relaxes and lets them take care of him, and his whole body tenses, every muscles twitching when Peter spends in him. When his brother’s hand wraps around him and Tony’s mouth is hot at the top of his spine and he couldn’t keep the groan contained if he wanted too. 

—

Tony bathes them in glitter and leather and teaches them to drive too fast in dainty cars. Harley graduates not as fast as he wanted, and Peter graduates too fast for Tony or Harley’s taste. 

The media speculates, conversates about the Stark Boys. One orphan who raised many. The two orphans set to inherit a kingdoms. 

They talk about the bruises on Harley’s hips, the hickeys on Peter’s neck. About the way Tony hovers, keeps his hands on their shoulders, tangles all their fingers together. 

Someone lets slip the large bed they occupy, after Peter turns 18 and of course the rumors fly, but SI ignores the storm and eventually the skies fade to blue. 

Harley finds Loki on a beach in Greece, fawned over by the locals and Thor. He’s still too pale, hair long and dark and just a bit wild, but he’s relaxed. No manic edge in his gaze. 

Harley sits beside him, holds his hand against the sand. “In another life,” he says, in remembrance of a game they were too afraid to play. 

_ We were good. Better. Enough for each other.  _

“In another life,” Loki answers. 

They bask in the sun for a long time, Thor eventually joining them and Harley is surprised at the gentleness in the blond’s gaze. 

Loki looks at him and he asks, “Is he…”

Thor finishes, “Is Tony happy?” 

There’s a wistfulness in their voices, a fear. Harley smiles, lets the sun whisper against his skin and he says, “Yeah. Yeah he really is, I think.”

Loki stands up and brushes sand from his pants and he pulls Harley up. Thor is watching, and somewhere Peter and Tony are fawning over Peter’s magic webbing, but none of them would mind this final parting. Loki holds him, gentle, and he presses his lips in a firm farewell. They’re a little teary, and the kiss is long overdue, but when they part, when Loki licks at his lips and pecks him once more, it feels like closure. 

—

This is the story Thor whispered to Loki, as he cleaned the lines on his back.  _ There’s a man in a tower waiting to break free _ . 

This is the story Loki growled against Harley’s neck, as he fucked the the burn of cruel mens’ fingers from his skin.  _ There’s a man in a tower who is just a bit broken, who wants things, needs things, but not what we think.  _

This is the story Harley wept against Peter’s growling stomach.  _ There’s a broken man who needs a family. Who saves lost little boys because he couldn’t save himself. He takes fractured, dull toys and makes them shiny and new. _

This is the story Tony kisses into the temples of his two lovers.  _ Once, a lonely man in a tower chased a family. And he found all these brothers who didn’t need him, except to set them free. And then one day he found some boys who loved each other too much, but couldn’t save one another. And so the broken man in the tower fit himself into their world, and together they made an new sort of family. _

It isn’t quite the story the rest of the world tells, but Tony watches his boys sate themselves on each other and he kisses them clean after and everything’s a little better, in their quiet room high in an impenetrable tower. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [heir and engine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20130193) by [ardett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardett/pseuds/ardett)




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